


stranger things

by savedby



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/pseuds/savedby
Summary: “Hi, I’m Auston,” he says, extending his arm. And then, because sometimes his brain gets away from him, “that’s Auston, with an O.”He says that. To someone who's probably seen his name written before. Maybe it’s not too late to drop out of the draft, go back to Switzerland for another year. The chocolate was really very good.





	stranger things

**Author's Note:**

> Biggest thanks to Dell for betaing this, and to Jo, for the encouragement, and to Elina, for patiently answering all the questions on Finland.

 

 

Auston has no intentions of letting anyone build up some imagined rivalry between him and Laine. Auston knows how good he is. He knows he’s going first, he knows how badly the Leafs want him.

 

He’s not worried about that.

 

The thing is, he remembers how Eichs got about McDavid - the uncharacteristic seriousness, the tense line of his back. He’s not about to let something like that happen to himself, or to Patrik, for that matter. He seems like a nice guy. Nobody deserves to have North American media dogging their every move and spinning narratives. Auston thinks he’s ready for it, he’s not sure Patrik is.

 

Either way, he’s not that interested in beating him in the draft. He intends to do it in the NHL, where it really counts.

 

So, he resolves to be as nice to him as possible when they meet. The guys tell him sometimes that he has a resting bitch face, which is mean and also untrue. But he’s going to do his best to smile at Patrik anyway. He’s been practicing. In the mirror. It’s kind of embarrassing.

 

 

*

 

 

One of the coaches introduces them at the combine. Auston has just gotten changed and Patrik is mid-stretch, so the whole thing is already awkward. 

 

Auston grits his teeth, soldiers on. One of the characteristics of a first overall pick is supposed to be determination against all odds.

 

“Hi, I’m Auston,” he says, extending his arm. And then, because sometimes his brain gets away from him, “that’s Auston, with an O.”

 

He says that. To someone who's probably seen his name written before. Maybe it’s not too late to drop out of the draft, go back to Switzerland for another year. The chocolate was really very good.

 

Patrik takes his hand. “Hi, Auston with an O,” he says, solemnly, “I’m Patrik, with a K.”

 

He smiles, and Auston can’t help smiling back, relieved. He gets caught up in looking at Patrik (with a K). It’s the first time he’s seen him up close. 

 

He’s tall, taller than Auston by a couple of inches, and with wider shoulders. His hair is very blonde, almost white in the harsh gym lighting. There’s a smile playing around the edges of his mouth, but Auston doesn’t feel laughed at.

 

He realizes the handshake is going on too long and that he and Patrik are actually just awkwardly holding hands in the middle of the combine, with what feels like a few hundred eyes staring at them.

 

He hurriedly drops Patrik’s hand, trying to regain some of his dignity.

 

“Well, good luck,” Auston says, proud of how even his voice sounds.

 

Patrik practically beams at him, and Auston blinks, momentarily blinded by how white his teeth are. “You too!” Patrik says, and that’s the end of that.

 

If he finds himself occasionally looking where Patrik is doing his drills, it’s just because he’s scoping out the competition. Nothing more.

 

 

*

 

Auston finds himself falling behind with Patrik. The other boys are loud and exuberant ahead, nerves and excitement shining through as they chirp each other. In contrast, Patrik is quiet, save for the scuff of his sneakers against the pavement. Auston squints at him from the corner of his eye, can’t make out the logo on his backwards hat, momentarily distracted by the way his hair catches the streetlights.

 

He wants to say something, start a conversation, but every time he opens his mouth, he loses his train of thought. 

 

“Are you sure you’re ready for winter in Toronto?” Patrik finally breaks the silence. Effortlessly, like Auston hasn’t been struggling for the past five minutes.

 

The question is posed curiously, but it’s an echo of sentiment he’s heard from the media, and usually it wouldn’t irritate him, but he’s heard it so much over the past few days that from Patrik it almost seems mocking.

 

“I think I can handle it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Maybe you should be worried about winters in Winnipeg.”

 

He says it harshly, and immediately regrets it, but Patrik just looks at him, sideways, and smiles. 

 

“So you can get angry. I was beginning to think you couldn’t do that. You’re very…” he pauses, frowning, as if he’s searching for the right word. Auston wants to help him out but he still hasn’t got the slightest clue what he’s on about.

 

“What?”

 

“Hard to read,” Patrik finally concludes, nodding to himself. 

 

“Well, isn’t that a good thing?” Auston asks, as the group ahead turns a corner, leaving them alone on the street for a moment. “That way it’s harder for opponents to know where I’m passing the puck.”

 

“Your hockey is easy to read,” Patrik says, dismissively, as Auston gapes at him. “It makes it harder to know if I’m allowed to do this or not.”

 

Auston is about to ask what ‘this’ is, but Patrik stops him from rounding the corner with a hand on his forearm, and a moment later, his lips touch to Auston’s cheek, gently. 

 

“Good luck tomorrow,” Patrik whispers, and he’s so close that his breath ruffles Auston’s hair.

 

And then he’s gone, around the corner, leaving Auston staring blankly at the dirty brick wall.

 

By the time, Auston catches up with the group, Patrik is already talking to someone else, and no matter how hard Auston tries to catch his gaze, he can’t seem to get Patrik to turn in his direction.

 

 

*

 

 

The Niagara falls are pretty, even though Auston has seen them before. The stray droplets plaster his hair against his forehead, collecting and dripping under his collar, plastering his sweatshirt to his back.

 

“Do you have waterfalls in Finland?” Auston has to yell to be heard over the water, but the tip of the boat, overlooking the receding waterfall is the only place he’s been able to catch Patrik alone.

 

“No, no waterfalls,” Patrik says, turning around. He’s all wet too, his eyelashes sticking together as he blinks at Auston. “They’re exotic.”

 

“Yeah,” Auston says, quickly. His mouth is suddenly dry.

 

“Do you have waterfalls in Arizona?” Patrik asks.

 

“No,” Auston says, causing a brief awkward silence. He takes a deep breath, and says all in a rush, “Can I get your phone number?”

 

“Oh,” Patrik blinks, “yeah, of course.”

 

Auston pulls out his phone, relieved. The drizzle from the distant waterfall has given way to actual rain from the grey sky above.

 

Patrik’s wet hands slide on the surface of Auston’s iPhone.  After a moment, Auston steps closer, raising the blue rain coat over them so Patrik can type.

 

It brings them closer together, enclosing them in a little warm cocoon. Patrik carefully types in his number, and Auston watches his fingers instead of watching his face and acknowledging how close they’re standing.

 

Patrik pauses a moment when putting in his name, looks up at Auston. Their breaths mingle in the small space.

 

Patrik deliberately puts in a little heart next to his name, before saving it and handing the phone back. Their fingers touch and they giggle nervously.

 

He finds himself watching Patrik’s mouth, wet from the rain. Water splatters on his raincoat.

 

Someone calls for them and they separate. Auston takes a deep breath, almost a gasp, and Patrik’s cheeks are stained pink.

 

 

*

 

 

“What are you smiling at?” Mitch says, curiously.

 

“Nothing,” Auston yelps, drops his phone with Patrik’s morning selfie still up on the screen. “It’s nothing!”

 

“Oh-kay,” Mitch says slowly, turning his attention back to the traffic. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

 

 

*

 

 

 

After the game against the Jets, Auston tells the guys to go on ahead to the hotel. Some of them look confused, some of them appraising, but ultimately no one questions him. The upside of cultivating a responsible reputation is that no one questions you even when you’re doing something potentially stupid.

 

After a few directions from surprised staff members, he gets the directions to the home locker room. The hallways he walks down are half dark and vacant, his steps echoing on the linoleum. It’s cold, and he pulls his beanie further down over his damp hair.

 

It gives him plenty of time to reflect on all the possible scenarios. There could be no one there waiting for him. He’ll have to navigate his way out of an unfamiliar arena and call an Uber to take him to the hotel. He should have at least texted to let him know he was coming. He should have -

 

Patrik is leaning against the wall next to the home locker room, texting something on his phone. He’s not wearing a coat, just some Jets marked gear, his hair curling soft over his forehead. Auston must make a sound, because Patrik looks up from his phone, his expression startled at first, then melting into recognition. He grins at Auston, flashing his bright white teeth, and Auston cautiously smiles back.

 

“Hi!” Patrik says, pushing off the wall. “I was just texting you to see if you were coming.”

 

He waves his phone in front of Auston, who nods, though he can barely make out the text on the screen. Auston is curious what name Patrik has him under in his phonebook, if it’s the uniform name and surname, or something else, something more familiar. He doubts it, but the thought occurs to him anyway.

 

“Here I am,” Auston says, lamely, but it makes Patrik nod, beaming, like he’s said something profound.

 

“It’s cold outside,” Patrik says, after a moment of awkward silence, “it’ll take us ages to get somewhere we won’t be recognized. I’ll take you to the players lounge, the coffee is good.”

 

He turns around, taking an ID card from his pocket to swipe open the door. From anyone else, Auston might bristle at the expectation to be blindly followed, but for Patrik it just seems par for course. The door clicks and Patrik holds it open for him, sending him an inquisitive look.

 

Their shoulders brush as Auston walks into the room. He gets a brief whiff of Patrik’s cologne before the smells of the locker room hit him all at once. He’s so used to the old sweat smell that it doesn’t make his nose wrinkle anymore, but it’s still a little unpleasant.

 

There’s a very high chance that he’ll never get to see the Jets home locker room again, and he looks around curiously as Patrik guides him through the room. It’s not that dissimilar to the one in Toronto. The color scheme is different, and the names above the stalls. The inspirational quotes are mostly the same though.

 

“That’s my stall,” Patrik points it out and Auston follows his finger obediently. It’s just a stall, no more or less cluttered than any of the others, but Patrik seems enthusiastic about it. 

 

The equipment managers are hard at work and they barely look up when Patrik calls out a greeting to them, like it’s normal that he’s in the room at this hour of the evening, catering strange men around.

 

“Do you stay late often?” Auston asks, prompting Patrik to turn around, walking backwards while he talks.

 

“Sometimes,” he says, smiling slightly, “more often than anyone else, maybe. I like the quiet, it helps me unwind.”

 

Auston supposes it’s peaceful, in a way, letting Patrik lead him down empty corridors. Patrik seems in his element at least, his shoulders relaxed and his gait easy, no traces of the game weighing on him. Where Auston’s energy is starting to crash, Patrik seems full of it, almost hyper.

 

It’s not until they go through two more doors with Patrik’s keycard that it occurs to Auston as unusual.

 

“Should you be showing me all this?”

 

Patrik shrugs and mutters something under his breath.

 

“What?”

 

“Hm? Oh. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Patrik says, grinning, opening another door with a swipe of his keycard. “We’re here!”

 

The Jets’ player lounge is big and comfortable. There’s couches scattered around the room, a big TV on every wall and a couple of ping pong tables in the back. The only person in the room is the cleaning lady, and Patrik makes a beeline for her. He seems to know her name and her children’s names, and by the time she leaves, she’s giggling and blushing like a teenage girl.

 

Patrik turns back to him, still beaming. “Her daughter plays hockey,” he says, “she’s very good.”

 

Seemingly without his permission, that gets Auston talking about the time his sisters ganged up on him on the ice, and Patrik is laughing as he preps the coffee machine, while Auston sprawls on one of the couches. Just like that, most of the tension Auston’s been feeling disappears.

Their conversation is interrupted by the coffee machine grinder, and Auston takes the opportunity to look at Patrik, while he’s focused on taking preparing the coffee cups and opening the milk carton. 

 

All of his features seem a little too big for his face, especially his jaw, dotted by blonde scraggly hairs that are only visible in the right light. His hair is drying soft and straight across his forehead, and the corners of his mouth upturned in a permanent smirk.

 

“Milk or sugar?”

 

“Huh?” Auston blinks, caught staring, and flushes. 

 

“Do you take milk or sugar with your coffee?” Patrik repeats patiently, his smirk widening.

 

“Oh, just milk, thanks.”

 

Patrik nods approvingly. “Like me,” he says, handing him a mug and taking a seat on the couch opposite.

 

Auston blows on the surface and takes a careful sip. The coffee is rich when it hits his mouth, the bitterness undercut by the milk, and it warms him all the way down to his toes.

 

“This is good coffee,” Auston says, and Patrik beams.

 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “I snuck Finnish coffee in here, in Tim Hortons bags.”

 

“And you didn’t tell anyone?” 

 

“You know how Canadians get!” He pitches his voice higher, in an apparent imitation of his teammates. “‘Oh, we’re gonna get Timmies, do you want to get Timmies? Timmies has the best coffee in the world!’”

 

By the end, Auston is laughing so hard, he has to put down his coffee so he doesn’t spill it.

 

“So they’ve been drinking Finnish coffee all season?” he asks.

 

“All season,” Patrik says, solemnly. “They keep saying how good it is and taking it home. Schief even bought the same coffee machine.”

 

“When are you going to tell them?”

 

“I’m waiting for the right moment,” Patrik says, taking another sip of his coffee. He suddenly looks up at Auston, pinning him with his gaze. “Don’t tell anyone! You’re the only one that knows, I haven’t even told Nikolaj. He can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

 

He shakes his head slightly, and Auston nods. “I won’t tell,” he says, feeling warm, and not only from the coffee.  

 

They drink their coffees and chat. Patrik is funny and seemingly an unending source of gossip. It feels like he learns more about the league’s various hidden scandals that he has all season in it. 

 

“How do you know all of this?” he asks, after Patrik recounts a story about a fairly famous NHLer and his vast collection of sex toys.

 

Patrik grins at him. “Finnish connections,” he says.

 

“What do you know about us?” Auston asks, curious. 

 

“About the Leafs?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Nothing,” Patrik pouts and Auston breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re all boring!”

 

“We aren’t!”

 

“Yes, you are! Tell Nylander to get caught in a sex club or something, just to spice things up a bit.”

 

Auston bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Patrik looks so earnest about his suggestion.

 

“If he does,” Auston promises solemnly, “you’ll be the first one I’ll tell.”

 

Patrik brightens. “Really?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Unfair!”

 

It starts getting dangerously near to Auston’s curfew, so they pack up, and Patrik leads him through the corridors and into Patrik’s car.

 

Auston eyes it a little doubtfully. “Are you sure you know how to drive?”

 

“Of course I know how to drive,” Patrik frowns. “You know, statistically, people in Toronto are the worst drivers in Canada?”

 

“You just made that up!”

 

“It’s true!”

 

Their drive is mostly silent. Patrik is concentrating on the road, turned glassy and treacherous by the ice, and Auston doesn’t mind it, alternatively staring at the Winnipeg skyline and the reflection of Patrik’s profile in the window. 

 

They arrive at the hotel sooner than Auston would have wanted and Patrik parks, turns on the overhead light. 

 

“See?” Patrik says. “Got you here safe and sound.”

 

Auston rolls his eyes. “So you have,” he says, then smiles. “Thanks for the coffee.”

 

“Anytime,” Patrik grins, then points outside the car window, where the accumulated snow has taken on a suspiciously glassy shine. “Be careful where you walk. It’s real winter out there.”

 

Auston chokes on a feeling of deja-vu. Patrik looks away, momentarily distracted by something outside the car, and Auston’s eyes catch on the arch of his cheekbone. He takes a deep breath and collects all the courage he has left to lean forward and press a quick kiss to Patrik’s cheek.

 

“See you,” he says, and pushes the car door open. The cold hits him like a slap in the face, and he almost gasps. He huddles into his coat and shuffles to the front entrance of the hotel. There he chances a look back at the car, and in the distance he can just barely make out Patrik raising a hand to cover his cheek.

 

It makes him grin as he steps through the door and into blessed warmth. His good mood doesn’t last long.

 

Mo and Jake are camped out on one of the lobby couches, in what they clearly think is an image of parental intervention. Naz is perched on the couch next to them, but it looks like he’s only there for the laughs and will probably be recording the whole thing on snapchat.

 

“Auston Arizona Matthews!” Mo yells across the lobby. “Where have you been all evening? Your father and I have been worried sick!”

 

Auston reluctantly crosses the lobby to stand in front of them, hopefully to stop them from making more of a scene.

 

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Mo,” he says. “My middle name isn’t Arizona.”

 

“Don’t avoid the question, Auston!” Jake says.

 

“Yeah, don’t avoid the question!” Mo echoes him.

 

Auston sighs. “If you must know,” he says, “I was in the Jets locker room, giving up Leafs secrets. In fact, I’ve asked for a trade.”

 

“Oh,” Jake frowns and exchanges a look with Mo. Off to the side, Nazeem has his whole fist tucked in his mouth to keep from laughing.

 

“We didn’t think you’d admit it so quickly,” Mo says. 

 

“Well, now that you know, can I go? I don’t want to miss curfew,” Auston says, turning around without waiting for an answer. He’d be more mortified if they hadn’t done the exact same thing to Marns when they were in Edmonton.

 

“You’re breaking your fathers’ hearts!” Jake yells and on cue Mo bursts out in hysterically and obviously fake sobbing, while Naz starts cracking up.

 

Good thing the elevator comes quickly, because Auston is seriously considering braving the Winnipeg winter just to get away from them.

 

 

*

 

 

Auston is less confident a few weeks later, when they’ve both got three days off and Patrik flies over to Toronto for the weekend.

 

Patrik spends the duration of the car ride nervously talking about the weather, while Auston grips the steering wheel in white knuckled hands.

 

Some time later, Patrik backs him up against the still bare kitchen counter and kisses him, slow and lingering, the way Auston had wanted to be kissed since he first saw him at the combine.

 

Patrik tastes like coffee.

 

 

*

 

 

They get to have the AllStar weekend together. 

 

“How are you enjoying your room?” the hotel receptionist asks Patrik, smiling.

 

“Oh, very much!” he replies, and Auston has to cover his mouth because he’s grinning so hard his mouth hurts. The truth is that Patrik’s hardly even been in his own room ever since this started. 

 

He’s been messing up the other side of Auston’s bed, kicking him in the shins during the night and stealing his shirts to walk around the room after his showers, while their belongings slowly mesh up in one big pile of clothing.

 

Auston’s shirts start smeling like Patrik. He likes it.

 

At this point, he’s sure that someone must have guessed about them, but no one says anything. And in an event like this, along some of the biggest names in hockey, the two of them fly surprisingly under the radar.

 

Patrik sits practically on Auston’s lap at the bar and no one even blinks. Granted, they’re the only two drinking virgin cocktails (until Jagr comes by and pours in a few shots from the flask he carries around), while everyone else is steadily on their way to getting smashed.

 

A few hours later, Taylor Hall is crying, Davo is making out with Seth Jones, and Ovechkin and Crosby are sketching out plays with champagne glasses in place of players.

 

Nobody has time to notice the two rookies holding hands under the table.

 

 

*

 

 

They sit together on the bench during the skills competition.

 

“Hey, is it just me, or is Ovechkin being kind of weird? He keeps looking over here,” Auston asks, nervously.

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Patrik says, ducking his head.

 

“What if he knows something?” Auston presses on, then catches sight of the grin on Patrik’s face. “Wait, did you do something?”

 

“I asked him to sign my stick.”

 

“Okay,” Auston frowns, “but isn’t that pretty normal?”

 

Patrik’s grin widens. “I also asked him for a lock of his hair,” he says, “for my altar.”

 

Auston finally catches on. “You’re fucking with him.”

 

“Yep!” Patrik says.

 

Auston frowns. “That’s beautiful, but, isn’t it kind of disrespectful? He’s an old man now, you know they get a little slow.”

 

Patrik shrugs. “You know what they say. Kill your idols.”

 

Auston blinks at him, blankly. “What?” he finally says after a long pause.

 

Patrik looks over, takes in Auston’s expression and sighs.  “I’m not going to kill Ovechkin, Auston.”

 

“Oh,” Auston says, feeling a little dumb.

 

And Patrik gives him one of those looks that are so openly and blatantly fond that Auston flushes and has to look at his skates for a little while so he doesn’t kiss him right there.

 

 

*

 

 

Auston would be the first to admit that he maybe goes a little bit overboard for Patrik’s birthday. They’ve been doing...whatever they’ve been doing (it’s dating, they’ve been dating) for just a few months when Patrik’s birthday comes around in April.

 

When he asks Patrik for one of his jerseys, Patrik gives him a suggestive look that makes Auston flush, because while he’d definitely be into that, he’s asking with the very best of intentions.

 

Getting Patrik’s measurements is a bit more of a problem, but he’s lucky that Patrik sleeps like a log and doesn’t even notice Auston rolling him around on a tape measure. 

 

And then he places a few calls and does some begging, and brandishes his credit card around.

 

It’s all worth it for the look on Patrik’s face on a grainy computer screen as he unboxes the suit jacket lined with his jersey, as Auston watches anxiously.

 

“Auston,” Patrik says, quietly, and Auston prepares an apology in his mouth, “I love it.”

 

And something in the way he says it, in his tone, in the look on his face, makes it clear to Auston that he isn’t just talking about the suit.

 

“I would like it if,” Auston starts, “if you wore it to the NHL awards this year.”

 

Patrik beams.

 

Then he strips off his T-shirt to try it on and that’s basically a present for Auston too.

 

Okay, so spending a couple hundred on a custom suit for your boyfriend might be a bit overboard, but Auston’s got to find a way to get rid of all those bonuses he’s collecting.

 

 

*

 

//

 

_ “Hello, friends and lovers of hockey, we’re coming to you live from this year’s NHL Awards red carpet. Lots of talent out here tonight, Jeff.” _

 

_ “Indeed there is, Steve! Sidney Crosby has just arrived, wearing a well cut navy suit and...someone get the camera off his crocs, please.” _

 

_ “Quite a sight.” _

 

_ “It is indeed, Steve, and quite a season Crosby has had this year!” _

 

_ “At least he’s shaved.” _

 

_ “It’s a blessing on us all.” _

 

_ “Oh, what is this? We’ve got some new arrivals!” _

 

_ “Two of our Calder nominees have arrived to the event together. Patrik Laine and Auston Matthews, two guys you wouldn’t expect to be worried about gas money, would you, Steve?” _

 

_ “That’s a heck of a joke, Jeff.” _

 

_ “Thank you.” _

 

_ “Laine and Matthews, each successful in their own team this season. Matthews, of course, continuing onto the playoffs, with a tight series against the Washington Capitals. Laine, on the other hand, has been successful in his own right, but his team hasn’t yet made the cut.” _

 

_ “What I really like about these boys, Steve, is that they haven’t fallen prey to the first overall rivalry. Look at them out there, supporting each other with a manly handshake.” _

 

_ “Er...Jeff…” _

 

_ “A wonderful example of friendship that we should all be inspired by!” _

 

_ “I think they’re holding hands.” _

 

_ “True brotherhood! Why, it brings a tear to my eye.” _

 

_ “Jeff...I think they’re kissing.” _

 

_ “Just guys being pals.” _

 

_ “Is that tongue?” _

 

_ “...wow, Laine is really giving it to him, Steve.” _

 

_ “This is...should we cut to the You Can Play commercial?” _

 

_ “An excellent idea, Steve! Let’s cut to commercial so the people at home won’t have to see the commissioner getting a heart attack on live TV.” _

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- actually, apparently Edmonton drivers are the worst drivers in Canada  
> \- I actually don't know what Auston's middle name is, it could well be Arizona  
> \- you might recognize some of the details of the AllStar weekend from [we were a house on fire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11035908). I wrote them at the same time and they sort of sneak into each other  
> \- that last bit sounds better if you imagine the very generic hockey announcers doing it  
> \- [Tumblr](http://muzzmurray.tumblr.com/)


End file.
